


Sparks

by trustingHim17



Series: Rekindling Hope [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 09:27:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27968279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Fire always destroys…doesn’t it? What if it could start the healing process?
Series: Rekindling Hope [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776541
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfills Whumptober 12, 14, 24, & Alt 11  
> 12\. I think I’ve broken something.   
> 14\. Is something burning?  
> 24\. You’re not making any sense.  
> Alt 11. Presumed dead

“Holmes, do you smell smoke?”

It had been a quiet evening at Baker Street before I spoke, and Holmes had long ago buried his nose in one of his many monographs. He barely looked up from the page he was proofreading.

“No.”

I frowned. The scent was faint but noticeable, and I set my book aside, standing to look out the window. The odor strengthened as I got closer, and a smoky haze drifted down the street and partially obscured the neighboring buildings. Movement caught my eye on the sidewalk below, and I looked down to see several people holding cloths over their faces as they ran past the window.

“Holmes.”

He ignored me, and I cracked the window just enough to peer down the street, coughing as my recently recovered lungs protested the tainted air drifting into the flat. Smoke billowed from the fabric shop three buildings away, rising into the air to blot out the evening sun, and I coughed again and closed the window. Holmes finally glanced up when I checked the contents of my bag.

“What is it?” he asked, setting the papers aside to cross the room.

“The fabric shop up the street is on fire,” I said, my words muffled from the wet cloth I tied over my nose and mouth. “I’m going to help. I’ll be back later.”

He glanced out the window before wetting a cloth of his own and following me out the door, and I frowned at him behind my mask.

“Work on your monograph, Holmes,” I protested. “You don’t need to come.”

He made no answer, and I dropped it with a sigh, wishing I had not broken his focus. He had no true reason to go except to follow me—he was no practicing doctor, and I hoped this was not a case for him—but now that he had decided to go, I would never be able to change his mind. While I would have preferred he not be near the flames quickly spreading through the shop, I knew better than to continue the argument. The only way he would stay home now is if I did, too, and there might be injuries related to the fire. Duty compelled me to go.

We hurried up the street, dodging through crowds of people fleeing the smoke as the fire raged inside the building. I had been aiming for the shop, intending to make sure the occupants had all gotten out safely, but a slumped figure staring at the flames caught my eye. I changed my path, Holmes following a step behind me.

A woman sat awkwardly on the curb, hunching one shoulder to cradle her arm though her gaze never left the burning building.

“Are you injured?”

She tore her gaze from the flames to look up at me blankly, not comprehending my question, and I set my bag on the ground to kneel next to her, coughing from the smoke despite my mask. I was less than two weeks past a seasonal bout of bronchitis, and the insidious lung infection I had contracted the previous month had sent me to bed for several days. Though I had not felt remotely sick for over a week, the smoke bothered me more than it usually would have.

“My name is Doctor Watson. Can I treat your burn?”

She continued staring at me for a long moment before her gaze finally cleared. “Oh!” She glanced down at the arm she subconsciously cradled to her stomach. “The fire nearly blocked the door before I got out. I’m just glad Jimmy was out when it started.” She looked back at the building, ignoring the way I inspected her arm before beginning to bandage it. She still seemed to be in shock, and her next words were directed more at the air than they were at me. “I can’t believe it’s all gone,” she said quietly, watching the flames. “Mother will be devastated when she finds out. All that work, wasted.”

Bells echoed on the street as I finished bandaging the mild burn, growing louder as the fire brigade approached. “They might be able to salvage some of it. What happened?”

She shook her head. “Dunno. I was sewing next to the fire, and the next thing I know, flames are spreading over the pile of fabric behind me. I barely got out.” A man’s scream rose from the building, and she paled. “Jimmy!”

She bolted to her feet, and I barely got a hand on her shoulder before she sprinted towards the shop. “Let the fire brigade reach him,” I said as two firefighters hurried toward the building, several others stringing hose to the nearby lake and readying the pump.

She glanced between me and the building once more, biting her lip in worry, but she eventually nodded. She started walking when I removed my hand, beginning to circle the fire toward the alley behind the building, and soon disappeared into the growing crowd.

I closed my bag as I glanced behind me, unsurprised that Holmes had wandered off while I treated her. I doubted he had gone far, and I scanned the street, searching for him. Several other doctors in the crowd meant we could leave, and I would be glad to get back to the cleaner air of the flat. My coughs were only getting harder as my lungs protested the smoke. I risked my bronchitis returning if I stayed here much longer.

There was no sign of my friend, however. All I saw were the firefighters working to put out the flames, and I frowned. Perhaps he had gone back to the flat?

No. As much as I wished he had, he would not have gone home when I was still at the scene of the fire, not after refusing to let me come alone.

Something drew my attention back to the flames. Shadows moved here and there around the building, but there had been no more screams. I hoped the firefighters had gotten to the lady’s friend in time, but there was nothing I could do about that unless they got him out. I was more concerned with finding Holmes. Something about this felt _wrong_.

“Dr. Watson,” Lestrade’s voice said behind me just before I started my own circle of the fire. “I should have expected to see you here, though I am surprised not to see Mr. Holmes as well.”

I nodded a greeting. Now unable to move away without being rude, I repeated my scan of the area as I distractedly answered, “He is around somewhere. I lost track of him when I stopped to help someone.”

Lestrade said something else, but his words faded behind the roaring in my ears as I caught sight of a familiar silhouette hurrying past a window, another man’s arm slung over his shoulder.

He shouldn’t be in there alone!

Backlit by the flames, Holmes moved past the water-soaked window in a quick shuffle toward the door. The other man slowed him down, and the building was threatening to collapse. My bag landed on the ground as I tried to rush to him, to help him. He would be able to move faster if I supported the man’s other side, but the distance seemed to lengthen. I never seemed to get closer to the door no matter what I did.

“Doctor! I’m not going to let you run into a burning building!”

I finally registered the hand gripping my right shoulder, firmly holding me in place despite my struggles, and I tried once more before halting, my gaze still firmly locked on the door as I watched for Holmes to emerge. What had possessed the idiot to run into a burning building with no back-up?

Lestrade watched the building almost as intently as I did, though I barely noticed. Holmes seemed to be taking far too long to reach the exit, and I hoped nothing had happened. Again, I tried and failed to break Lestrade’s grip on my shoulder.

Finally, _finally_ I spotted a silhouette through the door. Holmes hurried forward, helping the man limping next to him, only to stop barely a yard from safety and glance up.

“Holmes! Holmes, get out of there!”

He did not even look at me as he leaped to the side, separating from the man he had been helping as a flaming beam landed right where they had been standing. I continued trying to hurry forward, but Lestrade refused to release his grip on my shoulder, and two of the firefighters disappeared into the blaze.

One came back immediately with the injured man, and I waited, watching the building even as I tried to break free of Lestrade’s grip. He held me in a way I could not break no matter how I struggled.

Almost a full minute later, the other came back alone.

“Holmes! _Holmes!_ ”

There was no answer, and I fought harder, wanting, _needing_ to go in after him. If he was injured, he had only seconds for me to reach him. Lestrade needed to _let me go!_

Arms wrapped around me from behind, wrenching my elbows back to pin my arms and prevent me from moving forward, and a desperate cry filled the air.

_“HOLMES!”_

The only answer was another fiery beam crashing to the ground as flames danced over the outside of the building. The burning shop remained a burning shop. My friend did not appear.

Glass shattered, and something inside me shattered with it, crumbling to pieces and blowing away as I realized I had lost him for the second time. My knees buckled, and I seemed to fall in slow motion, unable to tear my gaze from the raging fire in front of me. From water to flames, both elements had taken him from me, but he could not claim to have never been in the building.

I was alone again.

“Doctor, can you hear me?”

Lestrade’s voice seemed a thousand miles away, drifting through clouds of smoke and ash to whisper in my ear, and I paid it no heed. The fire was larger, louder, roaring through me and taking over my thoughts. I had heard no scream. Did that mean the beam had taken him? Or had he just refused to voice the pain as he burned alive? _Why_ had he gone into a burning building?!

And why had he gone in _alone?_ I would have helped! We would have gotten the man out faster as a team, but if we could not, if the falling beam had blocked our path anyway, at least we would have gone together. I would much rather go together than return to the bleak months after Mary’s death.

Coughing reached my ears as my chest seemed to tighten, and I faintly realized the wind had kicked up, blowing smoke and ash towards me—towards us, for Lestrade still knelt in front of me, heedless of the smoke in the air and the moisture trickling down his face as he tried to get me to answer him.

Moisture?

I disregarded it. Hollowness consumed me, leaving me too empty to care how Lestrade had gotten a wet spot on his face next to an inferno. What did it matter when my dearest friend was gone?

The building collapsed in on itself, burying my friend in a flaming implosion, and I watched, unable to tear my gaze away. Hands tugged on my arms, my shoulder, trying to get me to stand, but I ignored them. He could leave; he needed to get out of the smoke, but I had no reason to. I would stay here until the flames had cooled enough for me to find whatever remained. Perhaps Lestrade would eventually leave, and I could go in before it cooled.

No. I wouldn’t do that. I would have rather gone together, but I would not follow like that. If I sat here long enough, however, maybe I would finish turning to ash myself and blow away on the breeze. Half of me had blown away already. Why not the other half?

A hand grabbed mine, draping my arm over a narrow set of shoulders and lifting me to my feet. I made no protest, not helping, but not fighting it either. If someone wanted me to move, why should I care? Perhaps I had been in a firefighter’s way.

The person led me off to the side, seating me on a low wall out of the worst of the smoke, and coughing reached my ears again as a vaguely familiar face appeared in front of me. “Doctor? Doctor, look at me. John?”

I faintly placed the voice as Lestrade’s, and surprise coursed through me along with confusion. Lestrade had never called me by my Christian name. We had been friends long enough there was nothing wrong with using Christian names, but why had he started now?

The fire pushed itself to the front of my thoughts, and I decided it didn’t matter. There was no use trying to think through the fog consuming me. I would figure it out in a few hours, when I remembered how to look past the emptiness. For now, though, I should probably answer him. Whatever he wanted to ask was apparently important, judging by his continued attempts, and maybe once I answered, he would leave me alone. I needed to retreat before I drowned under the grief sweeping over me.

Another wave stole my words before I could form them, however, and Lestrade’s voice faded even further. “You blooming idiot,” I barely heard. “What in blazes were you _thinking_?”

Confusion washed over me again, disappearing a moment later as a cobblestone cracked nearby. He was talking to someone else. Good. They would answer whatever he had been trying to ask me. There was no need for me to pay attention, and their voices—even their presence—faded from my awareness. I sank deeper into my own thoughts, searching for what had broken so I could remember how to pretend to live without it.


	2. Chapter 2

He landed with a grunt, grateful the still-damp cloth on his face protected him from the worst of the smoke. He hoped he had thrown Kimbell free of the beam. He would be able to move much faster without the injured man slowing him down, but all of this would be for nothing if he had failed in the last yard.

Thick smoke filled the building, and he coughed despite his mask. He would face the possibility of failure when he got out. He had only minutes before the building collapsed, and Watson had cried out just before the beam fell; he needed to get out there to make sure his friend was alright. If the man from their last case had decided to follow through on his threat, now, when they were separated, would have been the time to do it. He needed to find Watson.

Mrs. Hudson had sent him to this shop once before, making him purchase new curtains as punishment for burning her old ones, and there had been a window just to the side of the door. He hurried toward it, crouching low to the floor to avoid some of the smoke. The temperature was rising quickly, and it was getting harder to breathe.

There. A glimmer of light pierced the heavy smoke. A convenient piece of metal shattered the glass, and he jumped through, tucking his arms to his sides to prevent the jagged edges from cutting him. The roof collapsed moments after he was clear, and a sigh of relief changed into a smoky cough. That had been rather too close.

Sitting up to get his bearings, a deserted alley stared back at him, and he pulled himself to his feet. The fabric shop had been one of the few stand-alone buildings on this street, and the window had opened to a narrow alley between the shop and a row of houses. Why the firefighters were not back here making sure the flames did not spread, he had no idea, but that was hardly his problem. He needed to make sure Watson was alright. What could have made his friend cry out like that? He should still have been treating the lady’s burn, the forming crowd blocking his sight of the burning shop.

A firefighter passed him carrying a hose as he exited the alley, and he hurried away from the flames, scanning faces. The crowd that had been forming when they arrived had only grown, and Watson was not where he had been before Holmes went in after Kimbell, naturally. Holmes started a basic search pattern. People ignored him as he pushed his way across the street, but there was no sign of Watson. Where had he gone?

A tight cluster of people caught his attention, and he turned to see Kimbell on the ground, someone leaning over him and treating the injury caused by a fallen wardrobe. A woman Holmes recognized as Watson’s patient knelt on Kimbell’s other side, and Holmes hurried closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the doctor. Watson would have helped if he had been nearby when Kimbell escaped.

Jackson, not Watson, leaned over Kimbell, and Holmes scowled, quickly moving away before the quack of a young doctor could spot him. He needed to find Watson, not get drawn into another _discussion_ on why Jackson needed to work on his bedside manner.

Could Watson have left, thinking Holmes had returned to the flat when he had not been nearby after Watson finished treating the sister?

Holmes doubted it. He had seen the discontented look on Watson’s face when he insisted on following the doctor to the fire. Watson would not have left without knowing that Holmes had left as well.

He coughed again, and another cough answered him. Lestrade knelt several feet away, facing a low wall that started around the corner from the fabric shop. Even if he was not speaking to Watson, Lestrade would know where Watson was, and Holmes hurried closer.

“Doctor? Doctor, look at me. John?” Lestrade’s voice was heavy, thick, and Holmes picked up his pace. Had Watson been attacked? What kind of injury could put that much grief in the inspector’s tone and warrant the use of Watson’s Christian name?

The man’s threat came to mind, and Holmes moved faster, desperately hoping he was wrong.

Lestrade started to say something else when the noise of Holmes’ approach reached him, and he glanced up, the words breaking off mid-syllable as his gaze landed on Holmes. The heavy grief in his eyes faded first behind relief, then irritation.

“You blooming idiot,” he breathed. “What in blazes were you _thinking?”_

Holmes’ frown deepened, not understanding what had happened. Why was Lestrade’s face wet, and, if seeing Holmes’ approach changed the grief to irritation, why was he acting as if someone had…

The realization hit him as he rounded the corner. Watson sat on the low wall, his blank stare contrasting the heavy grief in his posture, and the grief still fading from Lestrade’s gaze said everything. Watson had not been attacked. They had seen him in the shop and assumed the worst when it collapsed.

“Watson, can you hear me?”

Watson’s only response was to cough again, his empty gaze staring through the smoke-obscured building across the street. It was growing more difficult to breathe, and he knew the smoke affected Lestrade and Watson as well. They needed to reach cleaner air. Holmes knelt in front of his friend, glancing at Lestrade in clear question of what had happened.

“What do you _think_ happened?” Lestrade nearly snarled, all his grief now turning to anger. “We saw you through the window, then in the doorway, and I barely prevented him from running in after you. Two firefighters went in after the beam fell, and one came back alone. He hasn’t so much as _looked_ at me since. We thought you were _dead!”_

“Watson. Watson, look at me.”

There was no response, and a warning, given two years before, rang through his mind.

_If he loses you, he will not be long behind._

“Watson, answer me.” Another cough forced its way to the surface, a painful, horrible cough from deep in his chest, and Watson finally shifted his gaze, now staring through Holmes but without any flicker of recognition.

Holmes smothered a shiver. Watson’s eyes were _empty_ , far emptier than they had been when Holmes first returned. “Watson, I am not dead. The shop had a window near the door.”

Faint confusion crossed Watson’s expression, and Holmes dared to hope that Watson was hearing him, that he was returning from wherever he had gone when the building collapsed.

The smoke grew thicker as the water began smothering the flames. He coughed again, and this time Watson coughed simultaneously.

“Watson, we need to leave,” he said, his voice starting to cut in and out. Dismissal flickered across Watson’s face, and he turned again to stare straight ahead, apparently seeing no reason to leave himself despite his own breathing growing rougher. Holmes would have to deal with _that_ later. They could not stay here.

“Run ahead and tell Mrs. Hudson we are coming,” Holmes ordered, gently pulling his friend to his feet. Watson coughed again, a shallower cough than Holmes’, from his throat instead of his lungs, but he did not resist standing. He continued staring blankly once on his feet, however, and Holmes took his arm to lead him toward the flat, frowning at the emptiness consuming Watson’s gaze. “We will need honey tea,” Holmes added as Lestrade’s cough joined his and Watson’s, “and Watson will want nearly-boiling water.”

Lestrade hesitated only long enough to be sure Holmes needed no help before dashing off, Watson’s medical bag in hand, and Holmes turned his attention to where Watson walked silently beside him.

“Watson, come back.”

Confusion crossed his friend’s face again, and he could almost hear the faint question. _Why would I do that?_

“Come back from wherever you are. You are needed here.”

Watson frowned, uncertainty showing in his gaze as they continued their slow walk towards the flat, but his eyes slowly cleared, the blankness receding though the emptiness remained. Holmes hated seeing such a thing in his friend, and it seemed to take an age before Watson finally focused on him.

A spark flickered to life in that empty gaze, nearly hidden behind the confusion that returned and mixed with unmitigated relief, and Watson froze a step from the front door.

“Holmes?” Watson gripped him by the arms, staring at him intently. “I thought—” He broke off, looking around though his grip never wavered. He turned back to Holmes after a moment, the confusion growing. “Did I—?” He cut himself off, but Holmes knew what he had been about to ask. _Did I imagine the fire?_

“Notice the smoke.” His voice cut out on the last word, and he turned his head to cough. Concern appeared in Watson’s eyes, pushing away his confusion to deal with later.

“That does not sound good.” He released Holmes with one hand and quickly turned the knob, frowning when the door opened without a key. Holmes could tell he was wondering if they had forgotten to lock it, but another cough cut off a warning that Lestrade was here.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Watson released his grip on Holmes’ arm to lead the way toward the stairs. A thought arrested him three steps in, however, and he stilled again, looking around the entry before glancing back at Holmes.

“I had my bag with me at the fire.”

“Lestrade brought it back,” Holmes said hoarsely, taking Watson’s arm in his own as the confusion flickered through his friend’s gaze again. “He is upstairs.”

Watson hesitated but nodded, turning toward the sitting room. He gripped Holmes’ arm briefly but broke the contact when the stairs made it too awkward to continue, coughing as he did so, and Holmes watched him closely despite the discomfort building in his own chest. The illness Watson had just gotten over would make him more sensitive to the smoke, and Holmes did not like his apparent disregard for his own breathing problems.

Lestrade looked up from where he stood next to a tea tray as they opened the door, worriedly focusing first on Watson, then Holmes.

“Have a seat, Lestrade,” Watson said quietly, a faint smirk twitching his mouth as he aimed for the medical bag resting on his desk. “You are here often enough to claim your chair even without us.”

Lestrade relaxed with a relieved grin, sinking into the chair he always claimed when he visited, and Watson dug in his bag for a long moment as Holmes lingered in the doorway. The urge to cough was growing stronger, and he tried to suppress it, more concerned with Watson than the way his chest was tightening. The herbal steam Watson was planning would help counter the effects of the smoke, but he did not like the hesitance still in Watson’s gaze.


	3. Chapter 3

“Is that tea or hot water on that tray?” I asked, not looking up from digging through my bag as I fought the urge to cough.

“Both,” Lestrade answered.

“Good.” I removed three small bowls from the bottom drawer of my desk and passed them to Lestrade. “Pour us each a bowl of water, would you?”

I quickly measured out a quantity of several herbs, dumping them into each bowl Lestrade set on the end table, and Holmes finally stopped staring at me from the doorway, stepping into the room to help. Suddenly, his face twisted in discomfort, and he held the wall to stay upright as hard, deep coughs forced their way out of his chest.

I frowned. He was going to get pneumonia if we did not take care of that cough quickly.

The spasm lasted for several seconds, and I was just about to cross the room to make sure he did not collapse when he finally got a full breath. He straightened a moment later, avoiding my gaze until he could breathe normally.

“I would quiz you on what herbs I just grabbed,” I said instead of voicing my worry, “but I doubt you can speak right now. Sit before you fall, Holmes.”

He rolled his eyes but crossed the room to sit in his armchair, still staring at me, and I wondered if he could read my thoughts. I hoped not. He did not need to know that I desperately hoped this was not a reoccurrence of the vivid regressions and dreams I had experienced after Mary died.

Was he truly here, or was I dreaming this after hours spent staring in shock at a slowly cooling fire?

I pushed the question aside, focusing my attention on setting up the steam inhalations for Lestrade and Holmes. Lestrade’s cough was mild, but Holmes’ concerned me. Holmes’ cough could develop into something far worse if left untreated.

I smothered another cough. My own could as well, given that I was still technically recovering, but I ignored it. It was more important to treat them than worry about me. I would deal with that in the morning—if this was real.

Holmes continued staring at me as I handed him the cloth to capture the steam. “You need to—” The words cut off, changing into another spasmic cough, and I affected a scowl as I pushed the steaming bowl closer to the edge of the table.

“I will,” I promised, knowing he had been trying to remonstrate me for letting my own bowl slowly cool while I set up his, “but your breathing is far worse.” A cough tickled my throat on the heels of the words, and I swallowed it.

I settled into my chair, inhaling the herbal steam, and silence fell over the sitting room for several long minutes as we all alternated between sipping the honeyed tea and breathing the steam. I got up once to switch out the bowls as the water cooled, changing the herbs slightly, and Holmes frowned at me when I simply topped off my own bowl instead of changing the water completely as I had for theirs. I avoided his gaze. I only had so much of each herb, and my cough was not worth worrying about, anyway.

Lestrade’s cough had eased by the time the second bowl cooled, and he left, claiming he was needed back at the Yard. I did not miss the look he exchanged with Holmes, but I made no comment. If I needed to know, one of them would tell me eventually; otherwise, the content of their silent conversation was none of my business.

Mrs. Hudson brought up more hot water, and I prepared a third bowl for Holmes, hiding that the steam had barely helped my own cough. Holmes’ breathing was easing; that was all that mattered, and the minutes passed in silence.

The cloth covered most of his face, but I could learn almost as much from his body language, and I studied him from my place over the bowl I had topped off yet again. His breathing had eased, and he no longer fought for every inhale. His coughing had decreased almost enough to match Lestrade’s original cough, and the tension that had been in his shoulders from suppressing the urge had relaxed. If his voice returned to normal when this third bowl had cooled, I allowed myself to hope he would avoid the pneumonia smoke inhalation sometimes caused.

I smothered a cough of my own. I would restock on herbs tomorrow and do this again. My bowl had apparently not produced enough steam to make a difference, but it hardly mattered. I was more concerned with making sure Holmes avoided illness.

“You can stop staring at me, Watson.” Holmes’ voice was only slightly muffled due to his place beneath the cloth. “I am not going anywhere.”

I smothered a start. I had not expected him to be able to see me. How did he know I was staring?

“When did you acquire the ability to see through cloth?” I asked, infusing the question with faint amusement.

“The window is behind you,” was his answer. He fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable leaning over the bowl. “Can I sit up, yet?”

“No,” I replied, affecting a scowl though I was glad he was feeling well enough to protest. I had been worried when he went along with the first two rounds without complaint. “Stay there until the steam stops rising. I do not want you developing pneumonia.”

“By this point, you are far more likely than I am. You do not hide the urge to cough as well as you think you do, and steam stopped rising from your bowl nearly ten minutes ago.”

I huffed at him, swallowing another cough as I did so. “I’m fine. I am not the one that ran into a burning building.”

I did not have to see his face to know he scowled in answer, but I continued before he could reply, “Speaking of which, if you insist on talking, you can tell me how you managed to escape a falling beam in an inferno.”

He hesitated. “I would rather discuss that when I do not have my head under a rag.”

I smirked, expecting that. “Then, hush.”

He probably rolled his eyes at me, but unlike him, I could not see through cloth. Silence fell over the sitting room once again, broken only by the noise of the crowds watching the firefighters still down on the street.

I stilled, realizing I could no longer hear the firefighters over the typical crowds. Had they left so quickly? The shop would be far too hot to leave unattended for at least another hour, and I glanced toward the window. If I looked out to find no trace of the fire brigade, I would have undeniable proof that this was a dream.

Another cough tickled in my throat, and I swallowed again. Getting sick would prove this was real, I thought ruefully, but that could wait. I should have time to buy more herbs in the morning. The question was whether I wanted to chance proving it a dream now, and I hesitated, glancing back and forth between Holmes and the window. I wanted this to be real, but if this _was_ a dream, proving as much would end it.

Did I want to get up and look?

I debated only a moment longer. I had always preferred _knowing_ , and this was no different. Better to catapult myself into painful reality than live a fantasy. I left the tepid bowl of water to look out the window.

The horse-drawn steam pump still sat in the middle of the street, and firefighters moved here and there in front of the crowd, monitoring nearby buildings, spraying water on the cooling fabric shop, and checking for injuries. I breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the cool glass as I alternated between watching the firefighters outside and staring at Holmes’ reflection.

“Have they finished putting out the fire, yet?” he asked, still leaning over the bowl.

“Mostly,” I answered shortly, watching a firefighter kneel to speak to a child.

He made no answer for a long moment, then movement sounded behind me. I refocused on the reflection in the glass as his hand came to rest on my shoulder, steam no longer visible over his bowl.

“I thought you were dead,” I said quietly, not turning away from the window though I could not avoid the coming conversation.

He gently squeezed my shoulder and moved to stand next to me. “There was a window to the side of the door,” he replied. “I broke the glass and escaped that way.”

I faintly recalled the sound of breaking glass that had mirrored the wave of grief crashing over me.

“A firefighter reached the man you saved.”

He nodded. “Kimbell. He had just walked into the shop when the fire broke out, but a wardrobe fell on him as he tried to go after his sister. She left via a different door.”

“How did you know he was there?”

“He called for help while you were talking to the sister.”

I made no answer, and the silence stretched. I wanted to know what had happened between someone—probably Lestrade—moving me to the low wall and blinking out of my thoughts to find Holmes walking next to me, but I could not decide how to ask. Holmes probably already knew, but I had no wish to confirm that I remembered very little of the time that had passed in a fog.

“Watson?”

I tore my gaze from the window to find him staring at me, a frown of worry on his face. He did not voice his thoughts, however.

“The wind shifted before I reached the street,” he said instead, “and the place I had last seen you was shrouded in smoke. I finally noticed Lestrade kneeling in front of a low wall, and I went to ask if he knew where you were. I heard you scream when the beam fell, but I never realized…” He trailed off and swallowed hard. “I did not know you had seen me inside until I saw the grief on Lestrade’s face.”

“From water to fire,” I said shortly, swallowing yet another cough.

His eye twitched, and I wondered if he had smothered a flinch. I knew he had not set out to scare me any more than I would have in his position, but that did not negate the heavy grief that had washed over me during the minutes I had thought him dead. I could not simply throw that off in half an hour, even if I were not still slightly worried that this was all a dream.

“Watson?”

I blinked, focusing on him as I realized I had been sinking into my thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“Your breathing is getting worse.”

Yes, it was, but there was little I could do about it. I had used the last of the steam herbs on Holmes’ bowl, and the shops were closed for the night. Even if they were not, the air was foul from the smoke still rising from the rubble of the fabric shop. The streets were quickly emptying of even the crowd gawking at the fire, and the Irregular that usually lingered outside had disappeared hours ago. It would have to wait. It hardly mattered, anyway.

“I’ll be alright.”

He frowned, studying me, and I turned away, ignoring his gaze as I put the bowls away and poured myself another cup of the honeyed tea Mrs. Hudson had brought up.

“Don’t worry about it, Holmes,” I said when he continued studying me. “I will get more herbs in the morning.”

His frown deepened, understanding flitting across his face as he quickly added up how much each bowl would have used. Lestrade being here had changed things, and my normally sufficient supply had barely stretched to cover them. I had neglected to treat myself in favor of treating them—something he should have expected. He would have done no less.

“Does Mrs. Hudson have any in the kitchen?” he asked around his own much-improved cough.

I shook my head. “I doubt it. Tomorrow is market day, and she mentioned she was running low last week.”

He hesitated, frowning at me, and I rolled my eyes. “Go ask her, then.” My voice tried to cut out, and I paused until it returned. “I am sure you know what I used.”

He ducked out the door a moment later, and the cough I had been smothering finally forced its way out. The cough was deep and painful, almost a spasm, and I smothered it in a pillow, trying to prevent the sound from carrying through the floor. I had no idea if I succeeded, but the cough refused to silence, and I relaxed into my armchair when it finally passed, cradling my cup of tea. I doubted I would get much sleep tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

He hurried down the stairs, not liking the muffled coughing that had sounded the moment he left the room. He should not have let Watson attend the scene of a fire so soon after recovering from that nasty lung infection.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

There was no answer, and he was tempted to search the kitchen himself instead of finding her. Mrs. Hudson reorganized portions of her kitchen every few days to keep him out of it, however, including the spice rack. It would be faster to ask her where they were than to look himself. Faint noises sounded from the spare room, and he strode toward the door.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

Something hit the table, and she stepped into the hallway.

“Where are your spices today?” he asked before she could voice the forming question. Worry flashed across her gaze. Lestrade would have told her enough about the fire for her to know why the hot water had been needed.

“I’m out of all but a few.” She turned, leading him toward the kitchen. “What do you need?”

He quickly listed the herbs Watson had used, and she shook her head even as she opened one of the possible spice cabinets.

“The only one I have is a small bit of rosemary,” she said, quickly retrieving the corresponding container. Perhaps a teaspoon of ground herb was left in the bottom—nowhere near enough for one steam, let alone the two or three Watson probably needed—and Holmes scowled as another round of coughing sounded from the room above.

“The shops are closed by now. Are you still friends with that neighbor?”

“Mrs. Turner is on holiday. What happened? I thought the doctor kept these in his bag.”

“He used them all on Lestrade and me, ignoring his own symptoms. Is there any way we can get these herbs tonight?”

She thought for a moment. “Mrs. Turner’s niece is supposed to spend a few hours a day at the flat,” she eventually said. “There’s a chance the fire earlier made her stay the night.”

He nodded sharply, quickly filling the kettle and setting it to heat. “Wear a mask of some sort,” he called over his shoulder.

The door clicked shut behind her. The increasingly frequent coughing coming from the sitting room showed Watson would not be able to wait until morning if they wanted to avoid illness, and he rummaged through the spice cabinet, scowling at how low so many of the supplies were.

He found a mint variant and set it aside, though he dared to hope that Mrs. Hudson’s longer absence meant the niece had answered Mrs. Turner’s door.

The water was just beginning to boil when the door opened, and he moved the kettle away from the flame as he glanced up.

“She was there,” Mrs. Hudson said with a sigh, taking a deep breath as she removed the cloth she had been using as feeble protection against the smoke still lingering in the air, “but Mrs. Turner is low as well. She had only rosemary and a bit of thyme.”

He frowned. The herbs worked best in conjunction with each other, and he had no idea if the rosemary would be effective alone. Coughing carried down the stairs again, however, and he tore his thoughts away from what they lacked. Some was better than none at all, and rosemary was the most important of the list. Pouring some water into a shallow bowl, he tossed in the thyme, a pinch of the mint variant, and a dose of the rosemary before hurrying back upstairs.

“Watson?” he said as he opened the door, realizing too late that his friend had been moments away from dozing off in his chair.

Watson started awake. “Hmm?” he answered after a moment, swallowing another cough now that Holmes was back in the room.

“Move to the settee. The neighbor had rosemary.”

A smirk crossed Watson’s face at his persistence, but he did as Holmes bid, leaning over the steaming bowl. Holmes settled in his chair, content to watch as silence fell.

“Stop worrying, Holmes,” Watson finally muttered into the steam. “I’m fine.”

Holmes allowed a smirk to break free. “What happened to not being able to see through cloth?”

Watson’s huff of amusement turned into a hacking cough, and the smirk turned into a worried frown.

“You are right next to the fire,” Watson finally got out, “but I do not need to see you to know that you never—” He paused when the second half of the word cut out, swallowing before continuing, “hold still unless you are worried or thinking hard.”

Amusement coursed through him, mixing with the steadily growing worry. Watson might not be able to deduce everything about a stranger on the street, but he was far from unobservant.

“If you did not want me to worry, you should have used some of the herbs on yourself.”

Watson muttered something into the bowl, and Holmes frowned, hoping that had not been what it sounded like.

“What was that?”

Watson waved him off, using another cough as an excuse not to repeat himself, and Holmes’ frown deepened. No matter that he had suspected as much for a while, he did not like the idea that Watson thought such a thing was true.


	5. Chapter 5

_Doesn’t matter._

I hoped he truly had not heard me. No matter how quietly, I should know better than to voice such a thing, if only to avoid the awkward conversation sure to result, but it _didn’t matter_. It had been far more important to stop Holmes’ quickly worsening cough than to prevent the chance of my comparatively minor one developing into something more, and I could hardly let Lestrade return to the Yard ill, especially after he had tried to help when I had thought Holmes dead. My own symptoms faded in importance when compared with that, and it had not been guaranteed that they would worsen so quickly. I could not use the herbs on myself for a chance when his own breathing was so labored that he had not even protested the first two bowls.

Mine would likely turn into the bronchitis from which I had recently recovered, but his would have become pneumonia, and the pneumonia seen in the aftermath of a fire was far more dangerous than the other occurrences. If one of us were to get sick, better the less dangerous illness. Better me than him.

Besides, I had known for years that I was nobody without Holmes, and the years after Switzerland had only proven it. I was expendable and always had been. Holmes need not say it for me to know it was true; his actions over the years spoke for him—however indirectly—though I was grateful they had stopped doing so quite as frequently after he returned. I would far rather keep him healthy and get sick myself than vice versa. He had shown he could survive perfectly well without me, but I would not survive losing him a second time. At least the increasing difficulty I was having just taking a breath was doing an excellent job at proving that this was no dream.

Silence fell over the sitting room for several minutes, broken only by the coughing I was having trouble silencing before Holmes spoke again.

“Your bronchitis is returning.”

I released the grip on the table that had held me upright during a coughing fit as I nodded. I could feel my lungs filling with fluid, and the coughs were getting harder, more painful. The infection was settling into my lungs; it would not be long before the fever set in.

“Is the steam helping at all?”

I hesitated. “No,” I finally answered quietly, setting the cloth aside. “With how quickly this is progressing, it might not have worked even if I had done it when you did.”

There was no reason to inhale the steam now, and I leaned back on the settee as he scowled at me.

“You should not have gone to the scene of the fire.”

I certainly wished I had stayed home, though more to avoid those long, horrible minutes thinking he was dead than because of my cough. I could not have, however.

“There might have been injuries,” I said simply. He should know better than to think I would turn away from a patient.

His scowl never wavered during the coughing fit my words caused. “Another doctor would have helped,” he said when I could listen again. “I saw Jackson there; I am sure another probably was as well.”

I rolled my eyes. “Because we both agree that Jackson counts in a list of doctors.”

The scowl relaxed minutely as a smirk tried to escape. Jackson had irritated me somewhat when he had treated me for pneumonia shortly before Mary’s death, but I had not taken a true dislike to him until Holmes called him in to help when I got sick the first winter after Holmes’ return. Jackson’s bedside manner was atrocious, and I had later caught him in several medical inconsistencies. I would not allow him to treat us or any patient of mine for fear he would do something like think it prudent to bleed a patient suffering from blood loss. Jackson thought he knew everything when he really knew very little.

Silence fell again as he stared at me, and I wondered if he was finally going to voice what had been bothering him since we got home. I hoped he found his words soon. I was not far from setting the teacup aside and trying to get some sleep. Coughing was _exhausting_ , and if my bronchitis was truly returning, I had not even started in earnest yet.

“It does matter.”

The quiet words came after several minutes of silence, and I glanced at him over the cup I had raised for another sip. “What matters?”

He fidgeted in his chair, his reddening ears betraying his discomfort as they always did when he forced himself to speak of something that he thought I should have figured out myself.

“You said it did not matter,” he answered after a moment, “but it does.”

I stared at him, berating myself as I realized he _had_ heard me.

“Don’t worry about it, Holmes,” I told him, relaxing further into the cushions in an attempt to distract him from the awkward conversation he was starting.

He frowned at me. “Why must you be so stubborn?”

I smirked. “Probably because I’ve shared rooms with you for so many years.”

He harrumphed, not quite managing to hide his answering smirk, but changed tactics instead of forcing the issue.

“Why did you not want to leave the scene of the fire?”

I stared at him, wondering from where that question had come. I did not need to remember my thoughts at the time to know the most likely answer to that question, and I would have thought he would know the answer as well. Just because he did not hold me in the same esteem that I did him did not mean he lacked the clues to know my thoughts.

“Why do you think?”

He made no reply, the question hanging between us as he waited for me to answer.

“Probably for the same reason it took me so long to leave the falls,” I finally muttered, breaking eye contact.

“Probably?” He hated inaccuracies, and I knew it. He had expected me to give a true answer instead of a likely one, but I merely shrugged. I could not give a completely accurate answer when I did not know myself.

“You were not in danger at the falls.”

I huffed just loudly enough to suffice for a response, staring into my cup. What would it matter whether I was in danger? I had not been more than faintly aware of the smoke until I blinked out of the thoughts that had started planning my immediate future to find Holmes walking next to me. How could I care about the smoke when I had something rather more important on my mind? The flames could have reached me, and I probably would not have noticed. Whoever had moved me to sit on the wall had known that, and I would have expected Holmes to realize it as well.

His frown deepened, and I assembled the basics of the mask I had used before his return, working to prevent my thoughts from reaching my face. I would need to raise my boundaries if he did not drop the topic quickly, but I could not think of anything besides the cough tickling my chest to use as a distraction.

I was not yet desperate enough to use his worry to escape an awkward conversation.

“Where did you go?”

I frowned in confusion, looking up at him.

“When?”

“You did not recognize me after the shop collapsed,” he elaborated. “Where did you go?”

I glanced away, wishing he had not asked that. How could I explain to him that anywhere had been better than here in that moment? I had learned long ago that the best way to escape the heavier waves of grief was to retreat into myself until they passed. They hurt less when I was only peripherally aware.

“Watson?”

He was not going to let me refuse to answer, and I sighed, smothering the cough the action caused as I searched for a term he would understand.

“My…brain attic,” I finally replied. That was close enough to the truth, and it was something he had said often enough himself.

He raised an eyebrow, immediately realizing I had bent my answer slightly and working to translate the slightly metaphorical term into the truth of the moment.

“Why?” he asked a moment later.

I shook my head. If he did not know, I certainly would not tell him, and I finally allowed that cough to escape. Faint worry flashed in his gaze as he waited.

“Why do you think it does not matter?” he asked when it had passed.

I shrugged. There was no reason to answer that, either—no reason to voice what I had known since we met and what he had proven after Switzerland. We both knew I was just barely useful enough to keep around; he had simply learned enough tact over the years not to say it, for which I was grateful. Knowing I was expendable and being told outright were two different things, and I would not let the conversation reach the point of his voicing it. I could quite easily handle the knowing, but the other would be more difficult.

“Watson?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said again as I set the teacup aside. “You hate speaking the obvious, and I see no reason to—” The word broke mid-syllable, and a painful coughing fit put a lengthy pause in the middle of my sentence. “Discuss it now,” I finally finished hoarsely, taking another sip of tea.

He frowned, swallowing his own—thankfully much milder—cough as he stared at me.

“I am not going anywhere,” he repeated.

Certainly not on purpose, I hoped, but I had thought the same before Switzerland. I could not keep my gaze from flicking toward the window, remembering the _knowing_ that had washed over me as the building collapsed with him presumably still inside. I had failed today—to observe when he went in alone, to reach him when I finally noticed, to protect him. I was glad my failure had not cost me everything yet again.

I had been one broken window from being alone because of my own blindness.

The plans I had started making came to mind, involving staying in London only long enough to see to the funeral before I disappeared into the countryside. I had been days from leaving when he returned, and I had no practice now to hold me in town. Why would I stay when I was just the detective’s lackey? I was useful enough for running errands, providing the occasional distraction, and asking stupid questions, I supposed, but those hardly counted as _real_ or _needed_. Anyone could do that, even that Yarder Holmes so vehemently disliked.

Another tickle rose in my chest, and the hardest cough yet fought its way out, forcing me to grab the edge of the cushion to stay upright. Getting sick proved this was real, at least. The infection settling into my chest was no dream, and I found myself almost grateful for the illness. Better to get sick than to be alone again.

“Answer me, Watson.”

I started at his voice as the spasm eased, glancing up as I realized I had sunk too far into my thoughts to keep track of his presence. If his tone was any indication, he had spoken several times before I finally heard.

“Hmm?” I asked when my breathing had returned to something close to normal. That was all I could get out without causing another coughing fit.

He stared at me, noting everything from the start I had failed to smother to the way the spasm had made my eyes water, but he did not continue. Deciding the spasmic cough had simply worried him, I gave him a moment longer before relaxing back into the cushions. I doubted I would sleep much tonight, but I would take whatever I could get considering I expected both nightmares and coughing to wake me at least a few times.

“You are needed here, Watson,” he said after I had closed my eyes. “I wish you would believe me.”

I swallowed another cough as I frowned, confused. That could not be what it sounded like. He could not be saying what was most apparent: that _he_ needed me, that I was useful. We both knew he could solve his cases perfectly well without me. I simply managed to occasionally ask a blind question at the right time to lead him there a little faster, and, while he paid close enough attention to how much my old injuries bothered me on any given day, that was mostly because I hated complaining, hated the fuss that came with drawing attention to injuries—old or new. I would run myself to the ground before I announced an issue, and I was relatively certain that he had decided it was better to deduce it and modify plans in the beginning than feel obligated to help when I pushed myself too far.

So he could not be saying what was most apparent, but the obvious discomfort I had noticed earlier had not diminished, opening the possibility of a poor word choice. Perhaps he had meant that I was wanted?

I could live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated! :)


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